An African Rebound: A Novel

by Dan Doyle

Overview

A Deep, Thought-Provoking Novel of Love, Loss, Civil Unrest, and Basketball

It is 1989, and Jim Keating has hit rock bottom. He’s lost his wife to cancer, his house to near bankruptcy, and his job as a college basketball coach to an extreme misunderstanding. He has also just about lost his mind, having slipped into a bout of serious depression. In an attempt to start life over, Jim returns home to Worcester. In high school and college, Jim had been a star athlete and went on to become a successful basketball coach. Throughout the years, Jim’s passion for basketball and commitment to the players never faltered. Recognizing this, an old friend makes Jim an offer designed to help him restart his career—and take hold of his life.

Jim soon arrives in Burundi, Africa, where he has been asked to create a basketball initiative that will bring the warring Hutu and Tutsi tribes together peacefully. While scouting for possible players, Jim discovers fourteen-year-old Leonard Tangishaka, an extraordinary seven-foot athlete with an unlimited potential for basketball. Jim envisions future success against the Rwandan National Team and maybe even an Olympic appearance. Unfortunate and mysterious events soon shatter Jim’s dreams of success and simultaneously increase the probability of violence escalating in Burundi. With the help of those around him, Jim must move forward and stay positive if he is to bring peace to the nation and inner peace to himself. An African Rebound is a deep, thought-provoking novel of love, loss, civil unrest, and basketball.

Skyhorse Publishing, as well as our Arcade, Yucca, and Good Books imprints, are proud to publish a broad range of books for readers interested in fiction—novels, novellas, political and medical thrillers, comedy, satire, historical fiction, romance, erotic and love stories, mystery, classic literature, folklore and mythology, literary classics including Shakespeare, Dumas, Wilde, Cather, and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781510713000
Publisher:	Skyhorse
Publication date:	01/10/2017
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	480
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.40(d)

About the Author

Dan Doyle traveled to Burundi, Africa, in 1990 to help develop Project Burundi alongside US diplomats. He is the founder and executive director of the Institute for International Sport. While in this position, Doyle founded the World Scholar-Athlete Games, National Sportsmanship Day, and the Center for Sports Parenting. A former high school and intercollegiate men’s basketball coach, he achieved a career record of 142–45 and led the Trinity College men’s team to national success. He lives in Kingston, Rhode Island.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Cherry Hill, New Jersey

(Fall 1989)

Jim Keating decided to pass on a final walk-through, one sellers often take to evoke nostalgia. For Jim, painful memories had smothered any pleasant remembrances, and he could not leave the house soon enough. He continued loading the last of his modest belongings into a car that looked to be on the critical list, moving as quickly as his weary body would allow. The last suitcase was the heaviest, and he had to heft it on his thigh to get it in the trunk. He went back, slammed the door, locked it, then saw his lawyer pull up.

"Thanks for coming, Joe," Jim said. "Here's the key. Hope the new owners have better ..." Halting in mid-sentence, he checked his self-pity.

"Good luck in your new home, and be careful on the trip," said the lawyer. "And listen, Coach, things will get better."

Couldn't get much worse, thought Jim.

* * *

Several weeks before his New Jersey departure, Jim had asked the Chevrolet dealer who provided automobiles for the athletic department to sell him a cheap but reliable car. He got a '78 Malibu, eleven years old with more than a few dents and scratches. But at least it was comfortable.

The ride up I-95 to I-84 was smooth enough. Anxious to put Jersey behind him, he made only a couple of pit stops, but every exit sign triggered recollections of fast-food restaurants, entitled recruits, and blighted hope. Finally, he neared Hartford and managed to keep his concentration on a Ludlum audiotape. One more tape, just enough to get him to his old hometown.

An hour later, as several people crossed at a traffic light, none took notice of the rickety '78 Malibu, idling in an agitated state, or of the man behind the wheel. That no one paid any attention to the car or its aging driver was a big change from forty-odd years earlier, when a sighting of Jim Keating would have turned every head in the Main South section of Worcester, boy or girl, man or woman.

I've made it home, thought Jim.

Before the devastating events of the past couple of years, a four-and-a-half-hour drive would have been a lay-up for the old jock. Yet so severe was his despondency that he had seriously questioned whether he could handle the trip without breaking down. And if he didn't, then surely the damn car would. But now he had arrived safely in the city he had lorded over as a youth, where his athletic exploits, even decades later, had never been equaled.

At the Auburn exit of the Massachusetts Turnpike, just before the turn onto I-290 into Worcester, he decided to take a slightly longer route to his new residence. He wanted to see his old Main South neighborhood. Now that he was in it, he said to himself, It's worse than I thought. Looks like I feel.

Homes he remembered as attractive and meticulously kept were sadly decrepit: sagging porches, boarded windows, yards full of weeds and trash. Cops patrolled Main Street with taut looks and billy clubs swinging. The high hope that had resonated from most every household of Jim's youth was now displaced by a palpable sense of futility.

Stopped at a red light, Jim eyed a skinny black kid with unusually long arms loping across the street in front of his car.

Since he'd started coaching in '50, Jim Keating had always taken note of physical attributes that might give an athlete an edge in any sport. This kid's arms drooped below his knees, and the image caused Jim's face to break into a half smile, his first in some time.

The light turned green, and the Malibu proceeded up Main Street to his new home two miles away, just beyond the border of the urban squalor that now surrounded him.

Jim Keating drove slowly. There was nothing on his calendar.

* * *

Turning left onto Stoneland Road, Jim rested his Malibu next to the curb and studied the scribbled notes he'd received from his landlord, Bill Perkins. "Number 14, seventh home on right, three-decker with brown shingles." Rolling to a stop at Number 14, the old Coach's eyes focused on the rotund figure seated on the front steps — a familiar face in a stranger's body.

"Well, if it ain't Mistah Jimmy Keatin. Great ta see ya, Jim ... been twenty years at least. Thought I'd wait for ya, give ya the key personally," said Perkins in his classic Worcester accent.

Both men noticed, though neither mentioned, how time had turned each of them into caricatures of their former selves. For his part, Perkins knew well of his old friend's recent torment, and he was ready with an ice-breaker: "Pulled this out of an ol' chest coupla weeks back — just after you first called me about rentin' the apartment. Thought you'd get a kick out of it."

Jim scanned a press clipping that chronicled his fourth-quarter heroics in some long-forgotten basketball game. The same article was no doubt glued to a page in one of the many scrapbooks his mother had kept.

"Let me take you upstairs, show you the place," said Perkins. The ascent was a Kilimanjaro climb for the landlord, and as the two reached the third floor, his slack-jawed mouth gulped fitfully for oxygen.

"Like I told ya on the phone, it ain't much, but it's clean and quiet," Perkins gasped as he handed Jim the key to the one-bedroom flat.

Perkins's description was on the mark, but Jim had no complaints. He was glad to be home and gladder still for the space that now separated him from some painful memories.

"Main South ain't what it used to be, Jim. It's fine down this end — still good people. But up past St. Peter's, the assend of the neighborhood, it's n — s and spics. N — s came first, then the spics, and they're even worse. If you go for a walk at night, stay in this area and you'll be fine. But listen to me advisin' Jim Keating on personal safety."

Recent events made Jim realize first-hand how painful it was to be on the receiving end of prejudice; he wanted to challenge Perkins's racist swill. But he just didn't have the spirit to do what he knew he should — at least not with an old friend who had probably cut the rent in half to accommodate Jim's ravaged finances.

"I'll let you get some rest, Coach. You look beat."

I am beat, thought Jim.

CHAPTER 2

A note in Nick Manzello's widely-read sports column in the Worcester Telegram gave notice that Jim Keating was back in town. But Jim had shielded himself with an unlisted phone number so Kirk Willar, one his favorite former baseball teammates, hadn't been able to track him down. Then Willar ran into Bill Perkins at Gilrein's Pub on Main Street.

"He ain't himself, that's for sure," Perkins said.

"Think he'd want to go to the Gloves next month, Bill?"

"Here's the address, you can ask him."

A couple of days later, Willar rang Jim's apartment bell. When Jim answered the door, Willar saw the forlorn look Perkins had mentioned. Except for some flecks of white, the crew cut was familiar. But Prozac had created a puffiness that eroded the sharp features Willar remembered, and Jim hadn't shaved for a couple of days, which intensified his tired demeanor.

"Kirk Willar, Jim," he said, saving Jim from the awkwardness of not recognizing an old chum.

"I know, Kirk. God, it's good to see you. Come on in."

"Thanks, Jim, but I'm on my way to work. Saw in Nick's column you were back. Wanted to stop by to welcome you. Also, did you know the Golden Gloves are on next month?"

"Didn't know that," replied Jim in earnest.

"It's a ways away, but you might want to give some thought to comin'. We all remember your KO of Billy Carlos only a couple of weeks after you took up the sport. People still talk about that fight. Everyone'd love to see ya, Jim."

The old Jim Keating had always been outgoing, almost loquacious when trading the details of some sports event in which he participated. But now, in a lair of dashed hope, he had little interest in recalling that bout or other past exploits.

"I appreciate you thinking of me, Kirk. Let me think about it."

Jim's guarded tone made Willar think it was unlikely his former running mate would show up on fight night.

* * *

Jim had given Kirk Willar his unlisted phone number. Willar called several times, imploring Jim to attend the Golden Gloves.

"It's always a great night, Jim. Your bein' there'd make it even bettah," was Willar's consistent theme.

But while Jim remained non-committal, Willar could sense that his old friend appreciated the calls and that he was beginning to give serious thought to attending the event.

"There's a little more spirit in his voice," Willar said to Bill Perkins.

Now settled back in Worcester, Jim had indeed edged away from despair, although he was still a long way from optimism. His decision to return to his hometown had been a good one, for when he arrived he surely knew where he was. Admittedly, the other end of Main South had fallen victim to social decay, but his part of the neighborhood, with many of the same Irish-Catholic families of his youth still anchored there, was largely unchanged. Its familiar homes, streets, trees, and smells gave him the footing he needed to begin what he knew could be a long journey back to stability.

Jim's other source of hope was Dr. Ken Rotella, a Worcester psychologist who had been recommended by his psychiatrist in New Jersey. Jim had met with Rotella once, and the two had immediately connected. Jim liked Rotella's direct, thoughtful approach. He was especially drawn to one piece of advice: "In this first phase of our relationship, I'm going to make a recommendation: start walking every day ... a long walk. Working on your fitness will help to revive your body and your mind."

I know that. I've just got to start doing it.

* * *

Following Dr. Rotella's counsel, Jim began to take daily walks around the neighborhood, staying within Bill Perkins's safety zone. As the psychologist had predicted, it was an activity he found therapeutic in various ways. Soon, he was up to three miles a day. Despite countless hours competing on fields and courts in his youth, Jim's knees had held up enough so that jogging was a near-term possibility. He almost joined the YMCA, but held back due to his sparse finances and reluctance to socialize.

The walks increased his comfort level with being home. Each block had its own set of distinct associations, mostly good ... all poignant. Further up Stoneland Road was the house where the eleven-member McHale family had lived on one floor of a three-decker. Jim recalled that each Easter Sunday, all nine McHale children would proudly sport their new shoes at the 10:00 am family Mass, a tradition many of them had carried on with their own kids. Walking down Hitchcock Road, Jim would pass the home in which a seventh-grade game of spin-the-bottle brought him his first kiss — and a mild rebuke from Mrs. McKeon, mother of Judy McKeon, the young hostess and, as it turned out, serial kisser. Jim was always certain that Mrs. McKeon had stealthily peered through the cracked kitchen door in the hope — futile as it turned out — of assuring her daughter's chastity. The memory would often prompt a smile.

Freeland Street brought to mind his boyhood friend Billy Kelleher, who, when he was eleven, saw his father forsake the parental journey in favor of another woman in Florida. Billy's anguish made Jim certain he would never abandon any of his own children. Freeland Street was but three blocks from Clark University, and Jim took note that the street had become the preserve of Clark students and young faculty.

His daily route then took him to Beaver Street and past the home he grew up in, another three-decker, where his parents rented the third-floor apartment.

Mary Keating was a doting Irish-American mother who had lost a daughter at childbirth when Jim was nine. Before the loss, she was simply a non-questioning Catholic. Afterwards, her grief drew her closer to the Church. She became a daily communicant at St. Peter's, and she was content within the comfort of her family and her religion. Mary practiced her maternal duties with unconditional love, a fact her son still reflected on with deep appreciation. With no small measure of emotion, Jim also recalled his mother's strength in the face of adversity, including the loss of her physical faculties over the course of a jagged, decade-long encounter with Parkinson's disease, which eventually took her life.

Frank Keating was a strong-willed and impassive man, a postal worker who carried the mail each day without complaint. Frank had fought in World War I, but never spoke of the experience. Years later, contemplating his father's pacific demeanor yet strident opposition to war of any sort, Jim concluded that his dad must have witnessed the most horrible of acts and likely suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or "shellshock," as they called it then.

One unforgettable exception to Frank's pacifism involved another Beaver Street neighbor. Mr. Casey — Jim knew him only by his surname — had also served in World War I and had been a victim of the toxic agents used in the "chemist's war," such as phosgene and chlorine. The result for Mr. Casey was not death, but, perhaps, a more dreadful outcome. With alarming frequency, Mr. Casey would be overcome with convulsive, frightening hiccup attacks of seizure-like proportions.

A favorite part of their Saturday ritual involved Frank taking his son to Louie's, the neighborhood soda shop on Main Street, for a malted milk. One morning, the young man behind the counter, Bobby O'Neil, an arrogant sort with a constant smirk on his face, was making fun of Mr. Casey to another boy, mimicking his attacks.

When they finished their malted milks, Frank took Jim outside and around the corner. "Wait here, son," he said. "And don't look into the store."

Several minutes later, Frank hastily walked back around the corner. "I did not hurt those boys, Jimmy," he said. "But I did make it clear to them what war is like ... and what men like Mr. Casey did for our country."

On the day Jim left for basic training, his father had stayed in his bedroom until just before his son's departure. When Frank finally appeared in the kitchen to say goodbye, Jim was certain his dad had been crying. Frank looked deep into his son's eyes, reached for Mary's hand, and moved closer to their only child. He wrapped mother and boy in his arms and said softly, "Be careful, son."

Four months later, crouched in a fox hole in New Guinea, Jim's platoon sergeant handed him a telegram, which read: The Secretary of War regrets to inform you that your father, Frank Keating, has died as a result of a car crash on November16, 1943. No emergency leaves were being granted to go stateside, such was the fierce intensity of the fighting. And so, at nineteen, thousands of miles from the intimacy of Main South, Jim experienced his first real loss. There would be many others.

* * *

With each passing day, the coach found that his daily walks strengthened the view his old neighborhood had shaped within him, values he still felt connected to: integrity, satisfaction with small pleasures, living for rewards other than money, and one that he now seemed to appreciate even more — staying close to home.

Were his reflections a concession to the fallacy of the perfect past? Perhaps to some extent. Yet, in those bygone days, for many in the neighborhood there was a special feeling about life that seemed bound to simplicity.

Well into adulthood, Jim recalled reading a passage: "You do not become happy merely by satisfying your desires. You become happy by employing a self-discipline which manages and gives coherence to your desires."

The philosophy of my old neighborhood, he thought.

CHAPTER 3

As Jim expected, Dr. Rotella urged him to go to the Gloves. When Kirk Willar called several days before the big event to ask — once again — if Jim would turn up, Jim sounded more optimistic.

"I'd like to go, Kirk, but I'm still not sure. How 'bout we leave it that I'll try to be there."

On fight night, two hours before the opening bell, Jim fought off hesitation and made the decision to attend. As he shuffled bare-footed into the bathroom to shave, the cold marble tile floor sent chills up his body and weakened his resolve.

Keep getting ready. That's what Dr. Rotella said to do if I start to change my mind.

He dropped a dry towel under his feet and continued to shave. Then he ironed a shirt, a task he'd seldom undertaken until several years ago and one he still found difficult.

It would be Jim's first public appearance since returning to Worcester. As he ran the iron awkwardly over the shirt sleeve, he kept pushing himself to make good on his internal commitment.

The frost on the window confirmed what the weather report on WTAG had warned: "a cold night with temperatures falling below freezing."

Jim put on his warmest coat and Harris tweed cap and reflected on a warning from Bill Perkins — one of several the landlord had offered regarding the perils of walking alone near the neighborhood limits.

"Where you've been walkin' is fine. But there's a corner up past St. Peter's Church where all the n------ s hang out. Dangerous place at night, Jim!"

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "An African Rebound"
by .
Copyright © 2013 Dan Doyle.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

I Heading Home,
II Hope,
III Uncommon Surprises,
IV The Game,
V Seeking the Truth,
VI Finding Light,
Acknowledgments,

Editorial Reviews

“A deeply touching and fascinating novel. This is a must-read for anyone familiar with the game of basketball.” —Julius Erving, NBA Hall of Famer

“This book will inspire you, intrigue you, and move you in unexpected ways.” —Harlan Coben, author of Live Wire and Stay Close

“An exciting and honest book any fan of basketball will truly appreciate.” —Ralph Sampson, NBA Hall of Famer

"As usual Dan Doyle hits the ball out of the literary park again. This book is a great story that examines society and culture. As a basketball coach, an educator, and as a person, [I feel] this is a must-read." —Jim Calhoun, former coach of UConn men's basketball and Hall of Famer

"Wonderfully crafted . . . Dan Doyle spins a tale of good and evil in Africa while evoking memories of some of basketball's greatest players of all time, including Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, and The Big O." —Joe Mitch, executive director, US Basketball Writers Association

"An African Rebound is my favorite kind of book—it entertains while it teaches. I learned an incredible amount about the history of basketball in this country in the context of a compelling story. Anyone who has stumbled in life will relate to Jim Keating's story . . . and anyone who loves basketball will keep turning the pages!" —Jim Thompson, founder and executive director, Positive Coaching Alliance

“A deeply touching and fascinating novel. This is a must-read for anyone familiar with the game of basketball.” —Julius Erving, NBA Hall of Famer

“This book will inspire you, intrigue you, and move you in unexpected ways.” —Harlan Coben, author of Live Wire and Stay Close

“An exciting and honest book any fan of basketball will truly appreciate.” —Ralph Sampson, NBA Hall of Famer

"As usual Dan Doyle hits the ball out of the literary park again. This book is a great story that examines society and culture. As a basketball coach, an educator, and as a person, [I feel] this is a must-read." —Jim Calhoun, former coach of UConn men's basketball and Hall of Famer

"Wonderfully crafted . . . Dan Doyle spins a tale of good and evil in Africa while evoking memories of some of basketball's greatest players of all time, including Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, and The Big O." —Joe Mitch, executive director, US Basketball Writers Association

"An African Rebound is my favorite kind of book—it entertains while it teaches. I learned an incredible amount about the history of basketball in this country in the context of a compelling story. Anyone who has stumbled in life will relate to Jim Keating's story . . . and anyone who loves basketball will keep turning the pages!" —Jim Thompson, founder and executive director, Positive Coaching Alliance

From the Publisher

My friend Dan wasn't a really good rebounder in b-ball, but he's hit a homerun here. A wonderfully told sports story that teaches us a very profound and compelling life lesson.

Bob Cousy

An African Rebound is a deeply touching and fascinating novel. This is a must-read for anyone familiar with the game of basketball.

Julius Erving

This book will inspire you, intrigue you, and move you in unexpected ways. It’s about basketball, about comebacks, about tragedy, about love, about overcoming adversity, about life. Don’t miss it.

Harlan Coben

As usual Dan Doyle hits the ball out of the literary park again. This book is a great story that examines society and culture. As a basketball coach, an educator, and as a person, [I feel] this is a must-read.

Jim Calhoun

Wonderfully crafted . . . Dan Doyle spins a tale of good and evil in Africa while evoking memories of some of basketball’s greatest players of all-time, including Bill Russell, Bob Cousy, and The Big O.

Joe Mitch

[Doyle] is living proof that an athletic and coaching background need not be an impediment to literary excellence.

G. Louis Heath